Into the Void
by KilroyWasHere
Summary: In the days after Sam jumps into Lucifer's Cage, Dean sends his brother a series of emails about his life with Lisa and Ben and his memories of his time on the road with Sam.
1. May 23, 2010

**May 23, 2010**

**RE: I believe it's time to go **

**To: bethechange at smartmail**

**From: riversideblues at smartmail **

You've been gone ten days. I know I promised I would stay, and that I wouldn't do anything crazy, but most of the time I don't think I can do it, Sammy. For maybe ten minutes out of every day I'm not making plans to rescue you. For maybe ten minutes when I'm helping Ben clean out the garage or drinking a beer on the back porch with Lisa you aren't the number one thought in my mind.

For the other 1430 minutes of the day (see, you're not the only super-genius...okay, okay, I used Ben's calculator) my thoughts range from plans to break into Hell and rescue you by whatever means necessary, and imagining exactly what I'll do to Lucifer once I get my hands on him. I've been dreaming about some of Alistair's more creative punishments recently (on the nights when I actually manage to sleep) but for once the dreams aren't nightmares, they're more like wish fulfillment. Stop scowling at me. You know it makes you look like a constipated gorilla.

I drove out to a cross-road tonight.

I'm driving an '89 Ford F250 now. The first time I tried to drive the Impala after arriving at Lisa's I pulled over before I made it ten minutes and got sick all over the road. Don't worry, she's safe and sound in Lisa's garage. Anyways, I drove all the way out to the cross-road, and then I realized that when I left the house I'd grabbed your wallet instead of mine, so I didn't have a picture of me to use.

Then I smashed a fist into the side of the truck, and then I kicked some rocks, and then I sat down in the middle of the cross-road and cried, really cried for the first time since I left Kansas. (Dr. Phil says it's good to get your emotions out...I've been watching far too much daytime television recently.)

Anyways, I drove back to the house to get my wallet, but by that point I was a little less drunk (maybe I cried out the beer...can you cry beer? That would be cool.) and I kept remembering that stupid promise you made me make. So here I am, writing an email to you instead of going down to hell and rescuing you and torturing Lucifer.

I miss you, Sammy.

**A/N: Email subject is a line from Robert Johnson's "Me And The Devil Blues." This story is titled for the Black Sabbath song of the same name. Apologies for the email address formatting-this was the only way I could get it to show up. **


	2. June 20, 2010

**June 20, 2010**

**RE: I never made promises lightly**

**To: bethechange at smartmail**

**From: riversideblues at smartmail **

Hey Sammy. It's been almost a month since I wrote you that last email. I never would have believed it back then, but things are actually a little better now. (I said a little. Mostly, I'm still screwed up and I still miss you so bad it feels like someone sucker punched me in the gut.)

But things are a bit better. I'm working a construction job now, which is more fun than it sounds. I know you always liked to do 'an honest day's work' or whatever flowery words you'd use, but give me a pool cue and an easy mark any day. But it's not so bad—I even go out to Smokey's, a local bar, with some of the guys. (Why is the local bar always called Smokey's? Remember that summer when you were about eleven when you counted all the towns we passed through that had Smokey's, and Dad let you pick where we went to dinner when you reached twenty five, and you picked some freaking vegan joint? I thought Dad was going to explode, but then he ended up liking that hummus shit.)

I'm doing better, but a week and a half ago I passed out drunk for the sixth time since I came to live with Lisa and Ben, and Lisa basically strong-armed me into going to see some head doctor. She reminded me of you when she did it, although of course her bitchface isn't nearly as epic as yours.

Anyways, I went for three sessions, then basically told Lisa that it wasn't working for me, but I'd make more of an effort to stop drinking. Mostly the shrink was full of bullshit—wanted to relive our childhood and make me talk crap about Dad and discuss how I was a parent at a young age—can you believe that? As if anyone in their right minds would call me parent material. But in a moment of insanity (hah! Guess I did need to see the head doctor) I mentioned that I'd written you an email, and she suggested I try it again, and to maybe review some of my good memories with you.

So, here we go. No promises I'll keep this up, but if you promise not to laugh then I'll promise to write at least four of these stupid things.

The first thing I remember about you is how small you were, Sammy. Mom tried to explain to me before you were born what babies were and how they make noise and smell and shit (she didn't put it quite like that) but all I took out of it was that I was going to have someone to play with me all the time.

So I was kind of disappointed when Dad took me to the hospital and you looked like a lump of uncooked bread.

Of course, you didn't sound like a lump of bread, you sounded like my toy fire engine when Dad accidentally ran over it with the lawn mower (Dad mowing the lawn…weird idea, right?) and it got stuck making a loud screeching noise until Dad told me it went to Fire Truck Heaven.

Huh. I just got that now.

But despite the noise and the smell and the disappointment of you being the size of a throw pillow (that sure didn't stick) I liked you pretty much from the start. You smiled for the first time when I gave you one of my GI Joes to play with. Of course, you being you, you promptly tried to swallow the thing so I had to take it away and then you cried, but there you go. For a smart kid, you sure could be pretty dumb sometimes.

We were really happy back then. Of course, most kids think the world is all lollipops when they're four, but I think we were happy. Mom and Dad fought sometimes, but everyone's parents do that. We might not have had much money, but we all laughed together (the first time you laughed was when Dad dropped a wrench on his foot and started swearing a blue streak…I don't think I've ever seen him so happy) and we were, you know, a family.

Then of course the fire happened, and shit's been going pretty much downhill ever since.

Sorry, Sammy. I wanted to make this a happy email, but I guess I sort of failed. I'll do better next time.

I miss you, Sammy.

**A/N: Email subject is from Sting's "Fields of Gold." **


	3. June 21, 2010

**June 21, 2010**

**RE: Hush little baby don't say a word **

**To: bethechange at smartmail**

**From: riversideblues at smartmail**

So I was planning of writing a bunch of emails about you as a baby and about Mom and stuff, but last night I had a nightmare that woke Lisa up, so I think I'm just going to skip ahead a bit.

I guess I never told you that, that I still get nightmares about the night that Mom died. It doesn't happen much, maybe once or twice a year. Like on her birthday or in November or stuff like that. I guess Dad and I never really told you much about that night—I know I never wanted to talk about it, and Dad probably felt the same. But yeah, sometimes I get nightmares about the fire. It's weird, too, because sometimes in my dreams you're not a baby, you're the age you are—were—now, and I'm trying to find you but the flames are too hot, and then sometimes everything looks exactly the same but I'm the age I am now. I don't know. I'm sure you could tell me what Freud or whoever would say about that.

In my dream last night I dreamt that I could hear Mom calling for help, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't get out of bed to go save her, and then you were crying and Dad was yelling for me and then everything got hot and I woke up.

Of course, that may have been the fault of Lisa's heated blanket, but who knows.

Speaking of things I never told you…since you're never going to read this I guess it doesn't matter if I tell you there's some things I never told you—never told anyone, not even Dad—about the night Mom died.

Do you remember when we were going after that Bloody Mary in Toledo, and my eyes started bleeding? I wasn't sure you noticed at the time, because you had enough to worry about. My eyes bled just like yours did, though, and I kept waiting for you to ask about it. I half wanted you to, and half desperately hoped that you wouldn't ask. When you never brought it up I assumed that you were too upset to notice. Now, well, now I can't help wondering if you noticed but didn't say anything because you didn't want me asking about Jess's death.

Bloody Mary made my eyes bleed because I felt guilty about Mom. I know it's stupid, but I felt—feel—guilty because I never told anyone that I was awake when she screamed, but I was too scared to get out of bed and see what was wrong.

I know, I know. I was only four, it wasn't my fault, it was the angels and the demons and Lucifer and destiny and travelling car salesmen and all that crap, but, man, I can't help wondering if things would have been different if I would have just gotten out of bed and gone to see if Mom was okay. Or, for that matter, if I'd gotten out of bed when I heard you crying. That's why I was awake, because I heard you making noises in your room, but I just thought Mom would take care of you.

It wasn't until I heard Dad yell that I got out of bed, and by that time of course it was too late.

The other thing I never told anyone is that when I carried you downstairs, I couldn't reach the door handle, so I set you in the big potted plant Mom kept by the door while I dragged a chair in from the next room. When we got outside, I realized that you were chewing on a piece of that fake mulch crap people put in their potted plants. I took it away from you and you started crying again, and then Dad yelled at me, but he said sorry right away.

Sorry. I meant to tell you why I wasn't going to write about your first year any more, and I ended up telling you about potted plants.

I miss you, Sammy.

**A/N: Email subject comes from Metallica's "Enter Sandman." **


	4. June 25, 2010

**June 25, 2010**

**RE: It seems like only yesterday I gazed through the glass **

**To: bethechange at smartmail**

**From: riversideblues at smartmail**

Sammy, do you remember that girl, Haley, the one who lost her brother in the woods? I really think there was something wrong with her brother—not the lost in the woods one, he obviously had enough issues—the other brother. He didn't speak, like, the whole time, and he just stared at us. I think he was a zombie. We totally should have fried his ass, saved Haley and what's-his-name some trouble.

I'm totally drunk, in case you couldn't tell.

I was thinking about that Haley girl though, and I think part of the reason I liked her so much, other than, well, you know, because she was hot, I mean did you see those shorts, and that shirt, it was really tight and

Anyways I think the reason I got her was because we felt the same way. She wanted to find her brother who'd gotten himself lsot in the woods, and I wanted to find my brother who'd got lost in himself, because of his dead girlfriend. It was a metaphor, or a simile, or a synecdoche, or one of those thingies.

Did I say I'm drunk? I'm drunk.

I totally got her, though. I got how she was feeling. I just wanted to find you, but you seemed to be gone no matter how hard I looked. That's sort of how I feel now.

Sammy, did you know Jess and I had the same birthday? I noticed it at her funeral, but then I figured you knew so I didn't say anything. I wish I could have gotten to know Jess, and not just because she was hot. She must have really loved you, for you to be so lost even I couldn't find you after she was gone. Honestly, I resented her a little for that even though it wasn't like she set your apartment on fire or anything.

I'm going to go to bed now. You'd probably be really mad if you read this email, although I can't remember why.

I miss you, Sammy

**A/N: Email subject is from Steely Dan's "Deacon Blues." This song is basically Dean Winchester's life in a nutshell. **


	5. June 30, 2010

**June 30, 2010**

**RE: Every place I go I'll think of you**

**To: bethechange at smartmail**

**From: riversideblues at smartmail**

Sammy, Ben wanted me to come to his day camp for some kind of "Bring Your Parent to Camp Day" thing. Lisa's a manager at a gym these days—although she still gives private yoga lessons ; ) –so she couldn't go in.

I told him no, Sammy. It's not so much about my obvious lack of parent skills, it's more that doing this makes things seem permanent. It's not even that I don't want to stay with Ben and Lisa, it's that it feels like acknowledging that you're really gone.

I'm trying, Sammy, but I just can't seem to accept it.

Ben was great about it, though—he's always great about me and my stupid screwed up head, actually. A few days after I showed up here, he came out on the porch and asked me about you. I was about to tell him to go—to bed, to the moon, anywhere—when he tells me that his friend Elisha (who names kids these days anyways?) died of cancer a few months ago, and it helped him feel better when he talked to other people about Elisha.

Man, I had no idea he'd lost his friend, and I had no idea what to say when he told me that. So I just started talking about that case we took for Jerry Panowski, the one where the demon was possessing the people on the planes. Dude, I hate airplanes. They are way scarier than clowns, no matter what you say.

Said. Whatever.

I told Ben how you snuck a bottle of holy water on the plane, and how you were so worried security would find it and take it you stuffed it down your boxers. I told him how some of the water spilled, so for the rest of the day you looked like you'd wet your pants. Remember how pissed you were when I loudly asked the cashier at Hudson News if they had any adult diapers?

Ben thought that was pretty funny, and I was surprised that I laughed a little too. I felt bad about laughing, but it also felt good. And I knew you wanted me to laugh—maybe not at you, but still—so I didn't feel too bad.

So I told Ben no about the camp day, but it is getting a little better. I'll have to see what other embarrassing stories I can tell Ben about you.

I miss you, Sammy.

**A/N: Email subject comes from John Denver's "Leaving on a Jet Plane." **


	6. July 4, 2010

**July 4, 2010**

**RE: I hear the voices of friends vanished and gone**

**To: bethechange at smartmail**

**From: riversideblues at smartmail **

Sammy, I just got back from a hunt. It was the only one I've done since coming to live with Lisa and Ben, and it's probably the only one I will do. I only went because your phone kept buzzing in my coat. I ignored it for a day or two, because I thought it was Bobby. He's been trying to call me for weeks, and I figured he was playing dirty and calling your phone. (Don't look at me like that. I just…I can't talk to him yet, okay?)

Anyways, I glanced at your phone the next time it rang, and it wasn't a number I recognized, so I answered just for the heck of it. (Okay, so I thought it might be a Crocatta, and I thought it might be pretending to be you, so…god, I'm pathetic.) It wasn't, though. It was Rebecca, your friend from Stanford. When I answered, she said, "Sam?" and I bit my tongue hard enough to make it bleed.

After a bit I managed to get it together enough to tell her who I was, and she asked if we could come to St. Louis to help her out. Turns out she's working as a counselor at a youth shelter, and last year they had a kid get stabbed to death by some crazy guy, and the kid's ghost just came back looking for revenge.

I was going to tell her I didn't hunt anymore, but she sounded real upset, so I agreed to go the next day. I hung up before she could ask about you—I didn't want to talk about it, and I figured that isn't the sort of thing you tell someone over the phone.

Lisa was worried about me going on a hunt—she even offered to come with me. There's a reason I love her, and yes, I said love. I really do think I love her, and Ben. (Ben wanted to come too. Lisa and I both said "NO!" real loud, and he rolled his eyes and said he bet it was a lame ghost anyways. Reminded me of you when you were that age.)

It's only five hours from Cicero to St. Louis, so I left yesterday morning and got back a little past midnight today. I did it in a day because I could hear you yelling at me that it was dangerous for me to go back to a city where I'm wanted for being a mass murderer. (And _that_ was an interesting conversation, explaining to Lisa why she might have to post bail.) Honestly, I also didn't want to stick around and talk to Becky about you. I even called her from the road and got directions to the cemetery where the kid was buried. In and out, that was the idea.

I should have remembered that nothing ever works out like we plan.

First, when I pulled up to the cemetery I had to sit in the truck like a creeper until I didn't feel like I was going to be sick to my stomach. Going to a cemetery is so ordinary for us that it never occurred to me that it might make me flash back to Kansas.

Then, after I pulled myself together, I had to wait for it to get dusky enough for me to do the salt n' burn without getting arrested. (Remember when you said that salt n' burn sounded like directions for cooking a burger, and I laughed so hard I dropped my lighter and then we couldn't find it? You owe me a new lighter.) The salt 'n burn went fine—kid showed up and tried to toss me around, but I pumped him full of rock salt and got the job done.

I was going to leave then, but I figured I should at least walk around the youth shelter with the EMF reader. I was almost done, but then Rebecca came out the front door and saw me.

I don't know if it was because I'd been so short on the phone, or just because you weren't with me, or because of the expression on my face or all three, but she knew right away. She said "oh god, no," or something like that, and just sank onto the steps and started crying. You could have told me that she was in love with you. Of course, you being you, you probably never noticed.

I'll be honest, Sam, I'm not proud of it but I started backing towards the truck. But then some other woman came and started yelling at me because she thought I'd hurt Rebecca, and I just said ;…;;;'',,'

I said, "She's upset because she found out my brother's dead."

That's the first time I said it, ever. I never even said that after you died at Cold Oaks. And I just…God, Sam, I miss you so much.

Eventually Rebecca calmed down and brought me to her office and asked me what had happened.

Sammy, I told her everything. I told her about Azazel, and what happened to you as a baby, and the truth about Jess's death, and my time in Hell, and Ruby and the angels, and Lucifer and Michael and the Apocalypse. I must have talked for over two hours. I felt kind of bad because I knew you didn't want your friends to know this stuff, but I couldn't seem to stop. Must be a shrink thing.

I was worried what she'd think of it all, especially the demon blood stuff. When I was done she sat quiet for a while, and finished off the box of tissues we'd been using. And then she looked at me and said, "So what you're saying is Sam saved the world."

I was worried she wouldn't get it, but she got it better than I ever could have hoped. Because that's it, in a peanut shell.

I miss you, Sammy.

**A/N: Email subject comes from "Streets of Philadelphia" by Bruce Springsteen. **


	7. July 6, 2010

**July 6, 2010**

**RE: Don't tread on me**

**To: bethechange at smartmail**

**From: riversideblues at smartmail**

Sammy, Lisa decided to have a post 4th of July barbeque. I think it might have been a plan to distract me—I told her about the time we lit up that field all those years ago. She didn't even blink when I told her I relived it all in Heaven.

I think she knew the 4th would be tough for me though, so she planned the party to distract me. I was so busy dragging out tables and chairs and buying beer and chips and shit that I didn't have time to think straight. And then of course there were the bee hives.

Yes, hives. Four of them. Lisa has a shed in the backyard, but she doesn't really use it and no one had been out there for months. Ben and I were carrying a card table around back when all of a sudden we hear this angry buzzing, and this pissed-off wasp and his 2,763 pissed-off brothers and sisters (Do bees have brothers and sisters?) come zooming around the shed, headed right for Ben and I.

I grabbed Ben and ran for the house—managed to get him inside without him getting stung, and I only got hit three or four times. Ben was all worried about what we were going to do—mostly I think he was worried I'd be upset if the picnic got cancelled. Damn kid worries about me too much.

Anyways, lucky for both of us I know how to deal with pissed-off bees. Remember that new development in Oklahoma, the one that got cursed by those Indians? (Native Americans, whatever. Shut up, College Boy.) Remember how I turned that can of Raid into a flame-thrower? Hell yes, it was awesome, no matter what you said. What's a little third-degree burn in the course of the battle against evil? Besides, I'm sure that developer's eyebrow grew back. Eventually.

So I got out my lighter, had Ben get Raid from the garage, made Ben stay back against the house, and barbequed those little suckers.

And then Lisa came home and started yelling about property damage and skin grafts and town ordinances and pyromaniacs and stuff, so I had to cut that short. It really was unfortunate that she came back just when I was letting Ben have a turn. (What? It's not like I let him do it alone—I held the lighter and he sprayed the Raid. I'm not an idiot.)

After Lisa calmed down we called a pest control guy to take care of the rest, and spent the afternoon strategically moving lawn furniture to cover the burn marks. Got to run now—barbeque starts in ten, and I'm in charge of the grill. I'll think of you as I'm salt n' burning.

I miss you, Sammy.

**A/N: Email subject comes from the Metallica song of the same name. **


	8. July 9, 2010

**July 9, 2010**

**RE: Above us only sky **

**To: bethechange at smartmail **

**From: riversideblues at smartmail**

Sammy, remember Missouri Mosely, that psychic who Dad went to see after Mom's death? She passed away last week. Just thought you should know. Not that you're reading this, but, well, you know.

I got back from having a few burgers with Sid, this neighbor who works at the same construction company as me, and Lisa came out to meet me at the truck, which told me right away that something was going on. She had a weird look on her face, too, and Sid took off right away because I think he thought Lisa was mad at me or something.

Lisa told me that a lawyer had showed up at the house about twenty minutes before I got there, and he was refusing to tell her what he wanted, just that he needed to talk to me. As we were going into the house she said, "He looks like he's one of your people."

I knew what she meant as soon as I saw the guy—he was obviously a Wiccan or something, with lots of random piercings and that 'holier-than-thou-peace-be-with-you-goddess-bless-your-begonias' attitude. (A few days before I showed up at your apartment in Palo Alto, I helped a bunch of Wiccans exorcise a ghost from their compost heap. No, I'm not kidding. Witches, man. White or black, good or evil, there's way too much…drippy stuff.)

Anyways, the guy told me in this snotty voice (no wonder Lisa was pissed) that he was the lawyer for Ms. Gloria Nicola Andretti, and she'd recently passed away and left me some stuff in her will. Just as I'm about to start asking him what his play is, he hands me a business card that lists his name and address in Lawrence, Kansas, and then I wasn't going to ask him what his play was, I was going to go for the salt gun.

He figured out pretty quick that he better start explaining—especially when Lisa came in brandishing the salt shaker at him. He told me that Gloria Andretti was Missouri's real name, and he explained that she'd had a heart attack (he used fancier words) and died five days ago. She'd left me some things in her will, so he'd come to deliver them.

When I asked him how he knew where to find me, he just looked at me like I was an idiot and said Missouri wrote down my address.

Psychics, dude. Creepy as hell with the knowing stuff all the time.

No offense.

So I asked him to just give me whatever she left me, because now Lisa looked real uneasy, and I was pretty sure Ben was listening in the stairwell, and he shrugged and handed me a wrapped package about the size of a laptop, but lighter and bulkier.

Then he made me sign a whole bunch of papers, because a lawyer's still a lawyer, no matter if he dances naked under the light of the full moon or not, and then I kind of shooed him out the door. As he was leaving he turned to me and said, "She said for you to read the note first."

The note—well, here. Ben taught me how to use the scanner a few days ago for some work stuff. You should read this.

**Dean—**

**I'm so sorry about your brother, honey. I felt it when the Cage opened—pretty sure every psychic worth their salt in a fifty-mile radius felt it—and I saw what happened to Sam. I'm sure you know this, but I wanted you to know that his last thoughts were about you. He was able to stop Lucifer because of you. I saw his memories of the two of you growing up, and the Devil did too. I'll say it again—you were one funny looking kid. **

**Those memories managed to pull up whatever tiny spark of decency was left in that decrepit old angel, and he pulled back enough for Sam to take control. I just thought your brother would want you to know. **

**If you're reading this, then I'm dead. Nothing dramatic—just a string of bad hearts in my family. I knew this was coming for a long time. I'm just glad I lived long enough to see Sam kick that old Devil back into his box.**

**You shouldn't have been so rude to Alec—he's a good lawyer, and, more importantly, a good soul, even if he is a bit stuck up. Stop making faces at me, boy. By the way—good choice with Lisa and Ben. God knows why that woman was crazy enough to open her door for you, but now that you've been given the gift, don't waste it. Let them help you. You need them more than you think, and more than they know. **

**I thought long and hard about whether or not to give you this. I know you're grieving, and working to move on, and to fulfill your brother's last wishes, and I know a lot of the time it's a struggle for you to just get up in the morning. I considered tossing it, but I figured I'd held onto it all these years for a reason, and this was it. That, and after seeing your brother's memories of you, I couldn't not give it to you. **

**I've kept an eye on you ever since your daddy brought you into my office and you sat in the corner the whole time, singing Beatles songs to Sam. You couldn't sing to save your life, but I could feel how much that little baby loved you. A feeling like that leaves a mark, in a good way. You left this in my office that day. It was the last time I saw you until you rolled into town five years ago. **

**Keep breathing. You can't escape this, and you can't avoid it, you can only go through it. **

**-Missouri**

After I read that, I didn't want to open the package in front of Ben and Lisa, so I lied and told them that it was a bunch of protection herbs that Missouri thought I could use. Then I waited until Lisa went to sleep and came down and opened it. That was about ten minutes ago.

She gave me back your baby blanket, Sammy. Well, really it's my baby blanket. After you were born and everyone came to the house and gave you gifts (Mom said it was a shower, and I kept waiting for someone to run water on you, but it never happened) I wanted to give you something too, so I gave you my old baby blanket. It even has my name stitched in the corner.

Anyways, now I'm sitting here holding the stupid blanket which looks more like a rag than a blanket—the name was the only way I knew what it was—and not crying because I miss you and I'm also sad Missouri's dead.

I miss you, Sammy.

**A/N: No offense meant to Wiccans—I just tried to reflect Dean's POV. Email subject line comes from John Lennon's "Imagine." **


End file.
